My Life with Death

Eric Stevenson Psychiatric Office, 454 North Monroe Street, Arlington

January 25, 2019

 "Session with Dr. Alexis E. Stepman, January 25, 2019, 4:58 p.m. Dr. Eric Stevenson, Special Counsel and Staff Therapist for the FBI, speaks."

"...I wanted to kill myself. Commit suicide, but it wasn't possible. They prevented me from doing it. Again. I don't understand. It doesn't make sense. He wants to kill, torture and hurt me, but he won't allow me to kill myself. Or does he want to? Am I just lying? I don't know. I thought suicide—my death—was all he wanted, but apparently, I was wrong."

"Did you take any drugs?"

"What do you consider drugs?"

"You are a scientist. Do you know what I mean when I ask, have you taken any drugs?'

"Scientist...," I smirked. "I haven't been a scientist for years. And yes...," I snorted. "I take drugs here and there... they help me," I said. "I didn't want to take codeine before because it dulled my senses, but now..."

"What's going on now?"

"When you live with yourself, the only thing that can happen to you at work is that you simply don't come home. But much worse things can happen if you have a family—someone you love and care about, like the fact that you survive and they don't. Evil people will take advantage of your love for them and abuse it. The memories are then bathed in their blood. Agent marriages are terrifying, but a family of two agents is a way to get revenge and inflict a lifetime of pain. A decision must be made, but how do I decide when I have to choose between a daughter and a man? Between a lifelong partner and a piece of myself, now I want to forget all about it. I don't care about anything now. I want to have a numb mind. I want to stop the thoughts that keep running through my head. I want them to stop. He's torturing me," I started freaking out. I held my head. It hurt terribly. "he's torturing me," I repeated repeatedly.

I started beating my head.

"Alexis," Dr. Stevenson called out. "Calm down," he added. He touched my hands. I had long sleeves. He rolled them up. "did you do that to yourself?" he asked when he saw the wounds on my forearms.

I jerked away from him and pulled down my sleeves again. I didn't want to see the wounds on my hands, and I certainly didn't want anyone else to see them.

"Why did you do that? What made you? Did something happen?" he asked more and more questions.

I was silent.

"I already know who the killer is. But I'd rather not know. The answer I hoped for seems more complicated than the questions preceding it."

"Why did you even come here today?"

My eyes were red, and my pupils dilated. My skin was deathly pale, and I was shaking.

"I hate being alone...," I paused. "What if he was right?" "Who? What true? Alexis, if you want to talk," he challenged me. "Mark Jacksony..."

"That's the first time you've said his name. From my experience with you and the file from your Vegas psychologist, you have always referred to him only as the Jane Doe Killer, have you not?"

I didn't even realize it. It could be better for me. Another part of life that I wanted to forget forever. And such a bad memory wouldn't help me much, but I needed help. I needed money and a phone.

But I failed at the doctor. You thought I was definitely out of my mind. He wanted to call the police on me. I knew it. I felt it. I saw it in his eyes. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let them arrest me. There was too much in the game. I had to get out as fast as possible, and I needed a gun and a phone to contact Samantha.